Wild Love (Rose Hill Book 1)
Wild Love: Chapter 15

“My sister is babysitting for you?”

West sounds disbelieving as he turns the steering wheel of his truck with his palm.

“She’s not babysitting. Cora is twelve. And Rosalie offered. They’re having pizza and watching Legally Blonde.”

He snorts. “Rosie never offers to babysit for me.”

“That’s because one of your kids is feral and—” I stop what I’m saying, realizing I’ve stepped in it.

West just chuckles. “Don’t be weird. You can say it. One is feral, and the other doesn’t talk.”

“I mean, he talks to you and Mia.”

“Doesn’t much help a babysitter, though, does it?” His tattooed fingers rap against the steering wheel. “Fine by me. Smart kid. He’ll do it when he’s good and ready. Then we’ll all be wishing he’d shut up.”

Leave it to West to be totally nonplussed by his son’s selective mutism. Where I’d be giving myself anxiety and researching the hell out of every option out there, West just goes with it, following his son’s lead.

“Ollie is lucky to have you.”

West grins almost maniacally. “Nah. I’m lucky to have him. That kid has taught me a lot about life.”

And I don’t doubt it. Becoming a dad changed West. Put him on a different path. He and Mia may not have been written in the stars, but he and those babies were. I think they might have saved him, actually. It wasn’t until they came around that he stopped doing crazy, dumb shit.

“You missed the turnoff,” I say when we blow past the bar on the lake. The one that has a bowling alley in the basement. Arcade games. Pool tables and a restaurant upstairs.

West scoffs. “No, I didn’t. That’s where the tourists go. Rose Valley Alley is where Dads’ Night Out happens.”

Fuck me, this is cheesy. “Do you really call it Dads’ Night Out?”

“Yeah. What the fuck else would I call it? ‘Grown men who have children meet at a bowling alley one night every other week’?”

“Every other week?”

“Yeah, man. It’s a league. Ladies’ Night is one Thursday, Men’s Night is the next. We take a short break between seasons. This is spring season.”

“I thought it was once a month or something.”

“Dude, you’re lucky it’s not once a week. In a bigger town it would be.”

I gape at my friend. We’ve always stayed in touch and met up here or in the city. We may not have always been based in the same place, we may even be opposites, but West is my longest-standing friend. And absolutely my most loyal.

But this bowling obsession? I don’t know what to make of it.

“Lucky. Right.”

West laughs at my clear dread, and before I know it, we pull up in front of an old building on the side of the highway. Drilled onto the top frame, at the roof, is a large cut-out of two bowling pins and a bowling ball, creating an unusual silhouette against the setting sun and the mountains’ peaks. Neon signs flash out front, advertising everything from “OPEN” to “NEON BOWLING” to “WINGS N BEER.”

We park and follow a dock-like wooden walkway to the front door.

Inside, balls crash against wood and the sign out front didn’t lie—it indeed smells like wings and beer. A piece of cardboard taped to one post near the front desk proclaims, “Welcome to Men’s League,” and I can’t help but laugh.

This is so… small town.

“Weston, how ya doin’, pal?” a large man with pink cheeks and a bright smile calls out from behind the till.

I try not to stare at how the buttons on his striped bowling shirt look ready to burst.

“Just great, Frankie. Got a fourth for the team here. Can we do all the registration paperwork after?” West hikes a thumb toward the lanes, where people are milling about. “I’d rather get him introduced to the gang.”

“You bet. You’re on six tonight,” the man replies before shifting his attention to me. “What’s your shoe size?”

“Thirteen? Do bowling shoes fit differently?”

The man chuckles and pulls out a pair of shoes, tossing them on the countertop. “Here ya go, big fella. They should fit.”

I grab them and follow West farther into the alley, feeling like a nervous kid heading to a brand-new school. I think of Cora. Her fearlessness. If she can waltz into a new town and a new school and a new house with a dude she barely knows, I can join a fucking bowling league.

“Here we go.” West slaps my shoulder as he gestures me forward. “Guys, this is Ford.”

A man with close-cropped dark hair, a few streaks of gray in it, glances up from where he sits tying his shoes. He’s got dark eyes, an unfriendly face, and where he’s not as tall as I am, he’s got a bulk that I don’t. He looks like he hates me, and I haven’t even opened my mouth yet.

“That’s Bash,” West says. “Or Sebastian. But the full name is a mouthful, ya know?”

Oh good. My new contractor.

“And this here”—West pushes an old, wiry man toward me—“is Crazy Clyde.”

Crazy Clyde is wearing a dirty trucker hat with the Rose Valley Alley logo on it and a suspicious glare on his face. It still seems like just calling him Clyde would be less of a mouthful.

“Who’s this?” The man’s watery eyes narrow.

“My friend Ford,” West explains. Again.

“Fords are shit cars. Can’t trust ’em.”

“Well, good thing I’m not a car.” I smirk back at him. West laughs. But no one else does.

“Where you from?”

“Calgary originally, I guess.”

The man makes a spitting motion. “City folk. Can’t trust ’em.”

“Clyde, shut up.” It’s the first thing Bash says as he finishes tying his shoes.

“Don’t trust you either. I told you the Denver airport is the Illuminati headquarters, and you went there anyway. And you…” He spins on West. “You’re too fuckin’ happy. Jokin’ around all the time. It’s like you don’t even care that the government is tracking you on that phone you carry everywhere.”

West pulls his phone out and waves it in front of Clyde. “This one? They can go ahead and track me. They’ll get real bored, real fast.” He turns to me. “Clyde lives on the other side of the mountain with no electricity or running water. But he makes an exception for beer on tap every other Thursday.”

Clyde grumbles something that sounds an awful lot like you mouthy little shit before he turns away to take a sip of his beer. I don’t know whether to laugh or just stand here in stunned silence. Clyde is truly a walking, talking mountaintown stereotype.

I turn wide eyes back to West and blurt out the first thing that comes to mind. “Does Rosie know about him?” She’d have a blast talking to this guy.

West snorts and waves a server over. “She knows about him but has yet to meet him. That would be quite the showdown.”

As West orders us a couple of beers, another man approaches. He’s tall. Taller than me, which is unusual at six foot three. But this guy does it. Long legs, long arms, even his neck appears to be unusually long.

Bash stands, coming to my side to face him. He crosses his arms and says nothing. He’d look tough if not for the two-tone bowling shoes on his feet.

“Hi. I’m Too Tall,” the man says. “The team captain for the High Rollers. We’ll be playing each other tonight.”

He sticks his hand out, and I laugh as I shake it because that was a weird introduction.

The tall dude doesn’t laugh. And neither does Bash. They stare off like this is fucking serious.

“I’m Ford. I don’t think you’re too tall at all. What’s your name?” I ask as I draw my hand away to the sound of West’s snicker behind me.

“Too Tall.”

I blink. This guy can’t be serious. He wants me to call him Too Tall as his actual name?

“Right, but what’s your big-boy name?” That gets me an amused grunt from Bash and a sneer from Too Tall.

Without telling me his real name, he turns and walks away, tossing a parting snipe over his shoulder. “Good luck tonight. You’re gonna need it.”

That’s all it takes. One petty sentence, and I’m suddenly very invested in this bowling league. Because fuck this guy and his dumb nickname and his high school attitude and his bowling shirt, which matches all the guys he walks back over to.

West hands me a beer and laughs. “I fuckin’ hate Too Tall.”

Bash nods.

“Can’t trust ’em. Neck is unnaturally long,” Clyde grumbles.

And me? I hold my beer up, a toast to the opposing team. “Thanks, Stretch! Appreciate it.”

“Stretch.” Bash huffs out the word, and it almost sounds like amusement coming from him. “I like that.”

We don’t beat the stupid High Rollers in their stupid matching outfits, but I have a hell of a lot more fun than I thought I would.